"Mkay," Martin answers automatically, barely registering the suggestion until John starts moving around, and his face scrunches up in sleepy protest. But ultimately it's a relief to lie down alongside John, nestled as close as the limited width of the couch requires, as close as he likes. He smiles softly at the kiss to his brow, then turns inward, burying his face against John's chest and breathing against him. He smells good, and it is remarkable that he gets to know that, to enjoy it.

If he were less tired, less on the brink of encompassing sleep, there might be more he wants to say. Something currently held close in his chest might rise to the surface and slip out. But he's too tired to speak and too tired to even appreciate any sort of relief over that. The only sound he manages is a sleepy, formless murmur before he's fully drifted off.